The Whaler's Tale
by Deadly28
Summary: Everyone knows the assassins. They all call them the Whalers, a name resulting from the nickname given to their leader. Everyone knows his title, and his name, but no one knows who he is. This is his story: the story of the Whaler of Dunwall. The story of Daud. Major spoilers for almost all of the game, rated T for violence and language.
1. Prologue

DISCLAIMER: Bethesda/Arkane own Dishonored, Daud, Dunwall ... wow, a lot of these names start with a 'D', don't they?

* * *

Daud leaned against his desk, waiting.

As expected, he felt a sudden, searing pain at his temples. With a single touch to his gloved left hand, he murmured, "Nice try, Corvo, but inside my mind ... is the last place you'd want to be."

He heard a frustrated groan from somewhere above him, and hid a satisfied smile, before turning his attention back to the portrait that lay in front of him. It was a bad copy of one of Anton Sokolov's portraits. The Tyvian physician and mad genius was another of his rival's victims, he'd heard. Daud studied his own features, mirroring the pose of the portrait. It was an old one; he looked barely thirty in this, while in reality, the scarred assassin himself had lost count of how old he was.

_Forty? Forty-five? Either way, I'm too old for this business_, Daud thought. _I should be retiring soon. And if the Lord Protector does what I believe he will, I'll be retiring permanently. An assassinated assassin. How poetic._ He smiled inwardly once more, and again surveyed the portrait. A weather-beaten, brown-haired man stared dispassionately back, his face harsh and bleak, a bloody scar curved over the right eye. In the portrait, Daud wore a black overcoat and a white shirt with khaki trousers, and thick leather gloves. Straps of crossbow bolts were slung over his shoulder and belt, but no sword. He'd not had one at the time.

Ah, the gloves. No one suspected the reason he wore those back then, but nowadays, every beggar on Clavering Boulevard knew that the 'Whaler of Dunwall' had been 'cursed' by the 'Outsider'. All lies. He was the only one who knew his story.

A swarm of rats burst from nowhere, and an unexpected gust of wind threw one of the assassins by Daud's side into their midst. Screaming, the man clawed at Daud.

Daud looked at him, drew a sword, and plunged it into his heart. _A mercy. He would have suffered if not for my actions_, the old man convinced himself. "Corvo," he called. "Come out." And he waited.

Finally, the air in front of him hazed and thickened, and in a fraction of a second, the former Lord Protector materialised in front of him, wielding a sword in his right hand. His left hand was bare, and on its back was etched a black tattoo. The Mark of the Outsider. Even as Daud watched, an assassin Transversed, slashing at the skull-masked warrior from behind. Corvo spun around, at the same time bringing his sword up, achieving a double purpose. The assassin stumbled back as the force of his own attack was pushed back into him, and the Lord Protector lunged forward, slitting his throat. Even as his blood spilled, Daud's student crumbled into ash.

_The Silence ability, as well as Windblast and Transversal,_ Daud mentally observed. _The swarm of rats, hmm? In this time of plague, an irony. I wonder what other new skills the Outsider grants his students. Come to think of it, I've not seen Corvo Tether anyone ..._

Another assassin attempted to slash Corvo in the back. Before he could, the royal guardian turned again, locking swords. Sparks flew for a second, and then Corvo pushed aside the assassin's sword and kicked him in the chest. As he struggled to catch his breath, Corvo stabbed him.

"The last of my assassins," Daud lied. "Well done, Corvo." As he spoke, Corvo whipped a pistol into his left hand, shooting at Daud. The older man vanished, reappearing behind Corvo and lashing out. He caught his foe in the back of his head, and Corvo stumbled. Daud instantly raised his left hand. Beneath the thick gloves, he felt his skin heat up, and he knew his own Mark was glowing bright blue. Clenching his teeth, Daud made a twisting motion as though pulling on a valve wheel. All sound ceased, there was no wind, and the billowing curtains at the windows of his room froze. Time had slowed to a halt.

His hand burning, Daud lashed out and cut at Corvo's skin. But the Lord Protector ... wasn't there?

Confused, Daud turned, only to be hit in the leg with a crossbow bolt. Cursing, he ripped it out of his boot and blinked once. He could just barely make out a golden outline in the corner of his eye, a human figure crouching at the ground with sword in one hand and crossbow in the other. Daud didn't hold back his smile this time. He Transversed, reappearing in front of Corvo, and struck downwards, only to meet hard steel as the other assassin blocked his move.

"Let's see which one of us the Outsider saves!" Daud spoke through gritted teeth.

Ever silent, Corvo hammered away Daud's sword and kicked him in the chest - but the older man was a quick learner, and had Transversed away before Corvo could stab him in the gut.

Daud placed a hand to his side, and felt it sticky. When he looked at it, he realised it was covered in blood. _Shit._ It wasn't often the Whaler swore, but when he did, something serious was happening. _He's got me. Damn ... Where did he go now?_

Time had resumed its normal pace when Daud had been stunned; he quickly Transversed to the window in the upper level of his study, and from there, he rematerialised in the ruined tenement in the house opposite. He waited, and sure enough, Corvo climbed to the window and Transversed across him to the metal chair, where he collapsed, panting heavily. Daud realised, a little proudly, that he'd underestimated himself. _An old assassin and a young bodyguard. Who'd have thought we were evenly matched?_

"Several years ago," Daud began, and then shook his head. "Forget it. It's a long story, an old one of no significance."

Corvo shrugged, as if to say, "I've got time." Taking this as the meaning, Daud said, clenching his teeth in pain, "I'm running out. If you don't mind ..."

Corvo uncapped a vial of red elixir, and downed half of it. He tossed the vial to Daud, who caught it not quite expertly. The old man sighed as he felt the warm, rejuvenating liquid trickle down his gullet. "Thank you." Feeling oddly self-conscious, he added, "I won't pass out at least, but I've got a few hours at the most. Just enough to tell you an old man's drunken memories. That is, assuming you'd like to hear them?"

Curious, Corvo inclined his head.

"Very well."

And so, as two killers, one old and near death, the other in the prime of his youth, lay in the destroyed apartments of the Flooded District of Dunwall; the old one bleeding against a wall, the young one leaning, exhausted, on a rusty stool; both of them endowed with impressive, fearsome, awe-inspiring, deadly supernatural abilities; so began -

**THE WHALER'S TALE**  
2013


	2. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Bethesda/Arkane own Dishonored, Daud, Dunwall ... wow, a lot of these names start with a 'D', don't they?

* * *

**THE WHALER'S TALE**

I. Chapter the First,  
in which the tale begins.

* * *

The island of Serkonos lay in the south of the Empire of Isles, under the hot tropical sun. At the southernmost tip of the island was the city of Karnaca, a sprawling area for the high-class Imperials, visited by bureaucrats, home to the Embassy of Gristol. Near Karnaca is the small fishing village of Rhinden, where our story begins.

In the time of this tale, there was a man by name of Garret Trask in the village of Rhinden. He was an old fisherman. In his youth, Trask had served in the Isles' Navy, and when he was discharged, worked onboard a whaling trawler in Serkonos. The man eventually grew tired of the seafaring life, and settled in Rhinden. By this time, he was thirty, and hardly well-off. So it came as a stroke of good luck when he soon married a Karnacan woman: Ariadne Contrada, a childhood friend of his. Some two years later, Trask and his wife conceived their first son, Carver. Then their second, Elektra. Their third and fourth child were born when Carver was six, and Elektra three: twin boys. In a fit of romanticism, Ariadne insisted one be named after the hero of a book she had once read, and so it was that the third-named child became Noland Trask. More practically, Henri Trask insisted on naming their fourth child after an ancestor of his, one who, he claimed, was a local hero in his hometown of Rhinden.

And the fourth of the Trasks was named Daud.

* * *

"Race you around the market," Carver challenged.

"Last one there buys me a round of drinks." That was Noland.

"You boys are so stupid." Elektra, cool as always.

The bemused shoppers looked on as the three youngsters spoke loudly - Elektra perched on a large, overturned casket and Noland and Carver gesturing wildly beside her. Nobody saw the thin teenager leaning against the wall opposite them: Daud had always been good at being unnoticed, a useful trick especially for escaping the wrath of his three siblings. He was just over five feet nine, a little short for sixteen, his brooding eyes brown - identical to Noland, his twin, in every way. However, there were the obvious distinctions to those who knew him. Both had dark brown hair, but Noland's was shaggy and always longer than Daud's, while his twin's hair was short and cut in the style of a navy sailor. Daud was lean and thin, while Noland was the more muscular, boisterous one.

As the two boys attempted to settle on a suitable bet, Daud sighed, observing his brothers and sister. Carver, twenty-two, had taken after their mother rather than their father. He had her rich coppery hair, her pale brown irises, and her dark skin. He was the playful one, always competitive, never serious. He was already working with their father as a fisherman. Elektra, like the twins, had hair that was a lustrous, dark brown, and much darker eyes. Her hair was cropped short, and she wore the traditional Serkonan attire of a male - a loose shirt, long pants, and an overcoat - making her easy to mistake for a boy. At nineteen, she was of the age when Serkonan women began working. She was the voice of reason, keeping the boys in hand.

Finally, they seemed to have worked out a bet. Noland and Carver leaned, tensing, as Elektra called out, "Three ... two ... one ... go!" At the start, both of them set off, racing down the crowded streets of the Rhindenian bazaars. Noland pushed and shoved his way past shoppers loudly bargaining with the fishermen, while Carver instead weaved his way in and out, sprinting past Noland easily. Elektra strode behind them, holding back her exasperation at their adolescent games. Daud silently rose, following her.

"Hello, Daud," Elektra greeted him without turning. "Where've you been?"

"Watching," he said simply.

She shrugged, and ran ahead to keep pace with Noland and Carver. When Daud finally caught up, Elektra, Noland and Carver were outside their house. Surprisingly, the two were not arguing about who had won, but instead were silently sitting outside. Daud cringed as he neared, hearing his mother curse loudly and his father roar back at her.

As with all the other shacks situated along the coastline, the Trasks' was a large three-room shanty, with cheap, moth-eaten furniture. The family's pride and joy, Garret's hand-built fishing boat the _Lady Carmine_, was docked outside at the seaside. Further down the busy beach was a huge wall, separating Rhinden from the docks of Karnaca, where rich nobles sunbathed as whaling trawlers pulled in.

"What's going on?" Daud whispered to Carver. His older brother shrugged him off, but Noland replied in a low voice, "Problems. Father wants to borrow money to repair the boat again." Noland and Ariadne both disapproved of Garret's occupation, and made it obvious that he did so. Daud wasn't quite sure why, but this had led to a certain distance being established between Garret and Noland. Thus, whenever Garret wanted money to repair the boat, he had to borrow it from moneylenders. Often, he couldn't repay it, and the four children awoke at night to brutal noises, as repossession men stormed the house, torturing Garret and taking what little the Trasks had. In the morning, Garret would have left early, to hide from his children his bruised and bloody body, and Ariadne would curse "your useless father and, Outsider's eyes, that boat!" But always Garret would find new lenders to borrow from, to repair the only thing he loved as much as his family.

_Damn this all_, Daud silently cursed. _If only we could make enough money to get out of this hell's pit._ But of course they couldn't, and Daud had to resign himself to more sleepless nights.

* * *

_Later that night ..._

The family had calmed down somewhat. Garret ate outside, in his boat, while Ariadne, glaring at the door and muttering to herself, heaped gruel on her children's plates. Daud couldn't remember the last time she'd looked so angry; he could only suppose Garret had borrowed an exceptionally large sum this time. He hadn't seen his father for a while: Carver and Garret had sailed up the coastline to the markets of Karnaca for a week, where fish sold at better prices and money was easier to come by. When they'd returned, Daud had been in the market with Noland, and was joined soon by Elektra and Carver.

It was night now. Everyone was asleep - except him.

Daud cautiously crawled to the door. He slept with all his siblings in one room. They didn't have many possessions of their own, but what little they had, they shared amongst themselves. But this was different. Daud had kept it to himself. He snuck out of the house noiselessly, and made his way behind the shanty. A small dark patch of earth indicated the place where he'd found it. Daud dug with his hands, burrowing a few inches until he found what he was looking for. He pulled it out, looking at the object in awe. It was once pristine, but now looked smudged and dirty. As he wiped the mud away, he uncovered a circular design etched in it, and strips of leather hanging off the edges, fixed to what he knew by the texture to be whalebone.

It awed him, and yet scared him. The day he'd found it, nearly a month ago, he'd slept with it under his pillow, and dreamt of grotesque monsters and beautiful, serpentine things, and a gigantic river, a river that cut through a city. He had woken in a cold sweat, chilled to the bone by the unspeakable horror of his dream. The very next day, Daud buried it behind the house, vowing never to touch it again. Lately, though, he'd stay awake at night, sneak out of the house, and, unclothed, lie against the cold metal of the shack he lived in, awake for hours, simply holding it.

It was like one of the monsters it had shown him: beautiful, hauntingly so, and enchanting; but if he misunderstood and misused it, he had no doubt that it would kill him somehow.

**THE WHALER'S TALE:_ to be continued ..._**


	3. Chapter 2

DISCLAIMER: Bethesda/Arkane own Dishonored, Daud, Dunwall ... wow, a lot of these names start with a 'D', don't they?

* * *

**THE WHALER'S TALE**

Chapter the Second,  
in which Daud meets a stranger.

* * *

A sudden, muffled crash sounded out in the night. Instantly, Daud slipped his whalebone trinket into the pocket of his ragged pants, and ran to the source of the noise. It was coming from the shore. Peeping around the corner of the house, Daud saw six men, all broad-shouldered, heavily built thugs. Screams penetrated the air, as they beat down a man with broken glass bottles and whatever else they could lay their hands upon. A very familiar man ...

"Fuh - father ..."

Daud collapsed, his eyes stinging, as he realised who the men were and who their unlucky victim was. As he wept, the thugs caught sight of him. Yelling to his mates, he roared, "The brat's here as well! Kill 'em all!"

A bottle crashed just by him, and, unthinkingly, Daud ran, ran around the house, and raced into his room. "The hitmen!" he cried. "The hitmen are here!" He shook his brothers awake. To his horror, when he pushed Noland over, he found a kitchen knife sticking out of his brother's chest. Daud backed away, straight into the arms of a hitman. They closed around his throat, and, for a second, he couldn't breathe ...

* * *

_Blood ..._

_A piece of glass ..._

_Kitchen knife ..._

_Coins clinking ..._

_The raucous laughter of drunken men ..._

_Sounds of chains clanking against each other ..._

Daud woke, sweating. He remembered only incoherent fragments from what he sincerely hoped was a dream. Judging by his current situation, it was most definitely not. He was shackled to the wall by his ankles, and his throat was parched. His eyes stung, and, with every breath, his lungs seemed to slap the inside of his ribcage like a red hot poker stirring coal. Once he mustered up enough strength, he looked around. Spotting a bowl of sickly-looking broth, Daud lunged at it. He greedily slurped up as much as he could stand, and then leaned back, his thirst sated. As he sat against the cracked plaster, events came flooding back to him.

It was probably a week ago, when Daud had found his father and brother lying dead. He'd awoken after that in the back of a horse carriage, knowing instantly that he was in Karnaca. He'd known from the pristine look of the buildings and the accented words of the men who paid the carriage-driver that they were all upper-class. Of course, the hitmen had been hired. He pretended to be still asleep, as the men left the carriage and entered the shadowy slums of the city. Daud was pulled out of the carriage as well, and shaken awake and strip-searched in public, then and there, outside a large, white house. From there, they dragged him to the cell he was in now, and flogged him until his lungs were exhausted from screaming. Once he recovered, he was once more stripped and his head submerged in ice-cold water. Every few seconds, they'd pull him out so that he could breathe just enough to survive a second dunking. The day after that, they'd let him be, but without food. Daud, however, was used to going a day or so while starving, much to their displeasure. So the next day, they poisoned him. They force-fed him a foul-smelling potion, which made him retch and suffocate, and then he vomited it out, so that they could give him more.

So did the torture continue, until the end of the week. It was the fifth or sixth day, when Daud was kicked awake, only to find that his captors had released his shackles. He was cuffed to one of their wrists, and dragged out of his prison. Finally, Daud figured out where he was. He had been held in a decrepit hotel in the slums of Karnaca, one who's name he quickly learned: the Kelsey. From the Kelsey, he was returned to the white manor he'd been searched outside. Daud caught a glimpse of its name: Streeton Lodge, number thirty-nine, Fenting Street. Inside the manor, he was taken to a small room, in front of a table stacked with papers and an inkwell. At the table sat a man who Daud would learn to hate until the day he died.

He was a fat, glistening man, dressed in the fashion of a foreigner. He wore a long red gown and small, gold-rimmed spectacles, and his neck and fingers were adorned in rubies. His hair was the colour and texture of muddy water; thin, unattractive strands combed over an almost bald head.

"I," the man said, without preamble, "am the man who ordered the death of your father. My name is Nero Streeton. Your father owed me money, a huge amount he demanded two weeks ago. When he failed to repay it, I sent my men after him."

When Daud refused to speak, Streeton continued, "I had your older brother and your mother executed as with your father, and sold your sister as a servant girl to a foreign nobleman." He smiled thinly for a second. "He paid handsomely. As for you ..." the moneylender gestured vaguely, "you are ... well, you're too young and ugly to be sold, and I do not you. So I have you tortured every day. Would you like to drink something?"

"Your blood," spat Daud, as all the hate he'd felt in the last few days boiled over, and he took a fearsome step towards Streeton. The moneylender shrank, squealing, "Guards!" and of course Daud was restrained, and beaten, and taken back.

Back in the present, Daud sat up straight as a thought occured to him. _Hmm ... the torturers haven't been here all day. I wonder what's with 'em?_ He felt his pocket, fiddling around until his fingers closed around a warm object. The whalebone thing. He'd been surprised when the searchers hadn't found it, assuming it had fallen out somewhere; but, two days ago, he'd returned from his daily torture sessions to find it in a small hole in the cell. He sat there now, his hand in his pocket reaching around it, and closed his eyes until sleep took him.

* * *

_Somewhere else_

_This has to be a dream ..._

Daud was still in his cell, but it was no longer a room. The roof and two walls had vanished, and the room seemed to be anchored to an invisible point in a swirling vortex of an undescribable colour. He looked down to see that his shackles were gone, and wandered outside. The sky was the same undescribable colour as the rest of the world he was in. As soon as Daud stepped outside, the air in front of him seemed to glow and haze, thickening to form a man's body. He wore a rust-coloured leather jacket and long black trousers tucked into his glossy black shoes.

"Who the ..." Daud began, but the man simply raised a hand, and this action seemed to silence Daud by its very doing.

"All in good time, Daud," the man said. "As for who I am, where you are, and how I know your name ... I am the Outsider. You might have heard of me?"

"You're the one the Abbey of the Everyman preaches against," Daud said. "The pagan demon ..."

"Is that what they're saying now?" the Outsider mused. "And in any case, you are ... somewhere else, let's put it that way. I've only brought you here for the moment, don't worry. Soon enough, you'll be returned. I've been watching you for a while." His eyes were deep black, expressionless, but his tone was deadly serious, like an unavoidable truth.

Despite this, Daud was pissed. "I don't have time for your bullshit," the teen growled.

"Now, now. I don't suppose you'd care to try politeness for once?"

Daud told him where he could shove his politeness, and the Outsider chuckled. "Well, then. To the point," the black-eyed 'god' stated. "I've chosen you. You ... intrigue me. Unpredictable, always. You might be important, or you might die a hopeless, lonely death in chains. Who knows?"

Daud's hand burned, and he screamed, as the Outsider spoke.

"I prefer to think you're important. Now come on, it's only a little tattoo. A permanent brand seared into your skin. Why don't we pass the time ... I know. Let me ask you a question. Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?"

**THE WHALER'S TALE:_ to be continued ..._**


	4. Chapter 3

DISCLAIMER: Bethesda/Arkane own Dishonored and related characters/locations.

* * *

**THE WHALER'S TALE**

Chapter the Third  
in which Daud learns the ways of the Outsider.

* * *

Daud lay panting on the dirty floor, his ragged clothes drenched in sweat.

_What the hell was that?,_ he thought, his mind numb. _Did I - did I just meet the Outsider?_

He remembered the tattoo, and unconsciously, his eyes drifted to his hand, where he could almost detect a phantom pain. It was like something flitting away that he could just see through the corner of his eye; there, and yet not there. At first, he was speechless; once he recovered, he rubbed at his eyes and incredulously stared when what wasn't supposed to be there refused to disappear. On the back of his hand was branded an elaborate mark in thin, long strokes of midnight blue ink, a brand of the deity who'd invaded his dreams. The Mark of the Outsider.

The overwhelming impossibility of it all crushed down upon him, and he felt weary, as though he'd run a marathon all around the island.

"Damn this," he whispered to himself, and looked at his leg. It was still chained to the wall, but now he knew exactly how to escape. Daud looked around, until he found what he was looking for: a small white rat scuttled around in a dusty corner. He knelt so that he could look at it, and focused his mind, reciting a soothing mantra in his native tongue, Serkonan. The rat, attracted by the noise, looked to Daud.

Daud's hand burned, and he felt his body crumble like moist beach sand in the breeze. Then he was no longer himself, and he was small, barely two inches tall, a small, scurrying white rat. As a rat, he was able to dart into small rat-holes, but this body was fragile, and his Possession of it was sickening it. It would die soon, he knew, and so he moved quickly.

The rat scampered down a hole, exiting the other end into the Karnacan streets. From there, he raced down the pavement and down a drainpipe, entering a bathroom stall at the end of his journey.

Daud emerged from his transformation, blinking as he readjusted his senses, and then smiled.

"Step one: escape," he murmured to himself. "Check. Step two: revenge ..."

* * *

Six months had passed.

Daud had spent the time training, learning to use his new powers. He was sure that the Outsider had some ulterior motive in choosing to gift him his Mark, but for now, Daud had put that asid. He put his heart and soul, body and mind, into learning how to effectively work with his powers. The first one he'd mastered was the power of Possession. He could use this to magically enter the body of another. Right now, he could only possess weak-minded animals, like fish, birds, and the occasional rat.

The second power Daud gained was the power to dematerialise, and reappear in another location. This was much less tricky than Possession, and he had already learnt how to move quickly across short distances. It would be helpful for sneaking up on his captors and shoving blades into their throats from behind without anyone noticing him. Right now, he was working on using this power.

Daud stood on a rooftop. His loose jacket billowed gently in the wind. He focused on the rooftop across him.

_I want to be there_.

He sprinted off the roof, not thinking of the ten-metre drop to the street, and fell through the air. The air around him thinned and he felt his hand burn fiercely as he disintegrated, his body becoming one with the wind. He _was_ the wind. Daud blew upwards, reaching a non-existent hand out to the roof, and, just as he felt the searing heat in his hand fade, he rematerialised, clutching at air. Daud fell on to the cobbled roof, grunting in pain as his shoulder slammed against cold stone. As he recovered, he sat up, looking across, and saw the roof he'd been on just seconds ago.

Daud smiled.

* * *

The City Library and Archives. Just another name of a small, dingy back-alley bookseller.

It was a small, dilapidated building, probably once a slum-house like all the other dwellings around it. Some literate fool had bought it, and decided to start up a business as a bookseller, despite the fact that hardly anyone in the surrounding area knew how to read. This was probably the reason for the poster pasted up on the windows, the one that read 'CLOSING SALE: AMAZING DEALS FROM 10%-60% DISCOUNTS ON ALL TOMES, NOVELS AND ASSORTED SCROLLS'.

Daud had a very specific reason for visiting the City Library. He refreshed his memory once more as he walked in the suffocatingly small store. A few middle-class citizens were milling around, browsing idly through thick, wordy books, and scrolls bound with leathery ribbons. But Daud knew the book he wanted, and where it would be; the Outsider had come to him in a dream the previous night, told him that he would find this book here in this place. Oddly specific commands from the strange godlike being, but Daud had decided it might be in his best interests to do as the other-worldly being had ordered. So here he was, picking up a thick scroll of parchment. It was bound differently from the others; a large bronze lock was shut around it, the key hanging from a tassel in the side. Daud unlocked it, noting to himself as he did that it was composed of fifty or so leaves printed on in emerald ink, each rolled up to create the complete scroll. He read the title: _Codex Extraria: Pagan Outsider Rituals, Carved Whalebone Devices and Sea Serpents_, proclaimed the first page of the series of scrolls. It was the one he was looking for. Daud locked it once more with the clasp and walked out of the store coolly.

"Thief! Thief!"

The store-keeper began to shout at the top of his voice, pointing at Daud. The teenager broke into a run, pushing past other civilians and jumping over obstacles. Confronted with a brick wall, he quickly looked around. Just as a few guards ran up to him, his body melded into nothingness. A breeze touched their faces, and then Daud reappeared on a rooftop. He ducked behind a chimney, as the confounded guards searched for him in the nearby houses.

His mission done, Daud withdrew a page from the Codex at random, and began to read.

**_The Powers of the Outsider_  
**

_The Outsider, if he chooses to do so, may visit one's dreams, and bestow upon them a devilish Mark. This Mark thus grants one access into the most fearful abilities of the Outsider. _

_- Transversal_

_- The power to conduct oneself through the environment within seconds by otherworldly means is known as Transversal. __It may be used for evasive means, for quick transport, and as a way to draw attention to oneself. The mechanics of the spell are such: one sees not where they want to be, but instead in their minds' eye, visualises themselves lighter than air and faster than thought. This causes their physical body to sink away into the Void for a second as the Void (long believed to be parallel to our world). The physical body then moves to the corresponding location in the Void, from wherefore it reforms itself in our world in the location desired. _

_Hmm, interesting,_ Daud thought to himself, skipping ahead.

_- Vision Most Dark in nature_

_- The second sight, as it is called, is a peculiar gift. It allows one to perceive human bodies and their sight through walls, as well as items of interest. If rituals as described on the three-hundred-and-ninety-sixth page are performed with several runes of whalebone, the second sight might also allow for more power being granted to the one who uses it so. It is unknown as to the nature of this ability's more powerful levels, but it is said that one who is proficient in the arts of the Outsider can see 'within and unto the intentions, whether immoral, amoral, or of good nature, of other persons he perceives'. _

_Page three hundred and ninety six ..._ Daud found that each side of each separate leaf was divided into ten pages. He flicked through until he found the desired page, and skimmed over the details of the ritual. It was short and simple, and, he suspected, he could easily perform it and gain the 'second sight'. _What an unwieldy name ... It needs something short and snazzy, like ... how about Dark Vision? Alright ... now to perform the ritual. _

By now, the guards were probably all gone. It was sunset, he realised as he looked into pink, shimmering clouds. The ritual was to be performed on the night of the new moon for the best results, so he decided to wait for that night until he performed it. Two days. Just enough time to do some more reading and find out more about what he could do.

And, of course, he would plan his revenge.

* * *

**THE WHALER'S TALE:_ to be continued ..._**


End file.
